


narcissus

by humanveil



Series: the language of flowers [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-23 13:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Loose strings.





	narcissus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etoilecourageuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoilecourageuse/gifts).



> This fic is a fill for the square “narcissus” on my [femslashficlets](https://femslashficlets.dreamwidth.org/) _language of flowers_ [table](https://femslashficlets.dreamwidth.org/164356.html), and was originally written as a gift as part of the 2017 [hpsapphicappeal](https://hpsapphicappeal.livejournal.com/) Sapphic Stockings event. 
> 
> ‘Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out’ by Richard Siken is the poem quoted in italics.

_narcissus —_

_a chance for improvement; rebirth; renewal._

 

 

“Why?”

“I wanted… I’m sorry.”

-

_dear forgiveness, you know that recently we have had our difficulties…_

-

Andromeda is alone when the knock comes.

It’s gentle, tentative. She knows who it is instantly, remembers that knock from their childhood. It would always come late at night, when the rest of the house was asleep. Innocently, at first. Later, not so much.

She shouldn’t answer it. That’s her first thought. She should wait, should sit and listen as it comes once, twice again, should wait until she gives up, leaves, walks away. There is no point, no hope. There are some things, Andromeda thinks, that cannot be repaired. Some that shouldn’t be. Things that they ought to let die.

She thinks of Narcissa on the other side, thinks of the door; the wood cool to touch, likely rough beneath Narcissa’s smooth skin. She imagines the drag of flesh against the polish, pictures the way her sister used to stand: proper, proud, patronising. She wonders if Narcissa still carries the same haughtiness. She questions if she wants her to.

-

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Then tell me to leave.”

-

_so maybe i wanted to give you something more than a catalogue of non-definitive acts, something other than desperation._

-

The knock comes again; louder, this time. More pressure. Andromeda can see the door: dark wood, covered in a glaze, littered with dips and dents. It’s reflective, a flame of a candle flickering in a curve of detail. It would be easy, she thinks, to step forward, to reach out, open it.

It would be easier to walk away.

-

“You can’t, can you?”

-

_of course, she wakes the dragon. love always wakes the dragon, and suddenly: flames everywhere._

-

“I know you’re there.”

Andromeda’s eyes flutter shut at the sound of Narcissa’s voice; loud, but still gentle, traced with a hint of hesitation. All of it achingly familiar. Her hand curls into a fist, her mouth suddenly dry. Time passes, one beat, another, but nothing happens. And then—

The wood is cool to touch, the pull of the handle symbolic of a lot of things; regret, forgiveness, surrender.   

She’d always been rubbish at turning her away.

-

“Are you going to let me sit?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But are you?”

-

_here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed._

-

Tea, because what else is she to do? It’s habit, by now. Procedure bred into them. The cup is warm in her hands, the dark liquid swirling with every touch, every bump. She rubs her thumb back and forth, over the delicate porcelain. She doesn’t know why she used this set.

-

“So.”

-

_you want a better story. who wouldn’t?_

-

In front of her, Narcissa looks tired. Exhausted. It’s etched into her face, seems to run bone deep. There are bags under her eyes, ones that would be harsh and dark if not for the make-up, the glamour. She’s trying to hide it, Andromeda thinks.

She does not think of how it’s mirrored in herself; does not wonder what runs through Narcissa’s mind. Instead she drops her gaze to her tea, brings the cup to her mouth.

It’s hot, bitter against her tongue. She cherishes the taste.

-

“Why?”

“You already asked that.”

-

_love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. it’s like a religion. it’s terrifying._

-

They talk of nothing, mostly. Spend time dancing around things. Andromeda waits for Narcissa to bring _it_ up, any of it; the war, the dead, her daughter, their sister. She doesn’t, can’t, maybe. Doesn’t know how to.

Or perhaps it’s not relevant, yet. Perhaps this is about them: them, not each other as individuals, not anything else, just them. Wholly. Completely. Like it used to be, in another life.

-

“It’s not like before.”

“Do you want it to be?”

-

_you see, i take the parts that i remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what i say and love me back._

-

A hand touches hers, curls around her palm, up to the wrist. Narcissa’s skin is as soft as it used to be, her hand the perfect size to fit against Andromeda’s. Andromeda shifts, doesn’t think. Their fingers intertwine.

Perhaps it’s not something that needs to be said.

-

“Don’t you miss it?”

“…Narcissa.”

-

_and the part where i push you flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks… shut up, i’m getting to it._

-

And she hates this, Andromeda thinks. This _thing_ , this pull to Narcissa; this undeniable bond. It runs too deep, she thinks. Ingrained in them, somehow. Inescapable, even now, after all these years, after everything that’s happened, after all they’ve done to each other.

If it were anyone else, she thinks, if it were anyone else, she wouldn’t have opened the door.

-

“You never could say no to me.”

-

_love, love, whatever._

-

Forgiveness is a funny thing; the way it comes, the way it doesn’t. The way both can happen at once. It’s hard to make sense of—impossible, even. In this case.

The bed is soft. The mattress dips. There is no hesitation, here, not once they’ve already started. The two of them fall into it easily, like they’re meant to. And what a twisted thought that is, Andromeda thinks. How very horrid of her, of them.

-

“More.”

-

 _more love streaming out the wrong way, and i don’t want to be the kind that says_ the wrong way.

-

The first kiss aches with familiarity, and Andromeda finds herself clutching, clinging, cashing the chance of oblivion. 

Narcissa is right, she thinks now. She’s always had difficulty denying her, even when it was best to. For all her teasing, taunting, it’s Andromeda who makes the final decision, who lets it happen; has always been this way.

Hands move over bodies, harsher than they used to. Nails sink into flesh, teeth following, and Andromeda continues to cling; does not want to lose the possibility of this, too. Not when it’s all that’s left.


End file.
